Streams of consciousness...

Perhaps because I'm in the process of changing medications....
Perhaps because I'm drinking much more coffee lately....
Perhaps because I'm back in classes and my mind is once again being stimulated...

Whatever the reason, I've been unusually introspective over the past week.  This is especially true when I'm tired.  I find myself narrating my own actions and thoughts in the third person quite often lately. 

Is this normal?
I don't know.

What I do know is that whenever I catch myself being my own narrator in what would likely be a good horror/drama/comedy/tragedy book I always end with the same thought:

This would be a good blog.

Last night I imagined myself as a character is Stephen King's The Stand.  Of course, I was one of those who died in the plague (being sick at the time and all).  I saw myself lying on the couch, unattended, as I was one of the last people in town alive.  And I thought...

What would I do if I were really dying, and I knew it?
My gut reaction: Write a scathing letter to Serena to let her know exactly what I thought of her and the front she tries to pass off as the perfect upper-middle class suburban soccer mom.

I imagined my parents and daughter coming to visit me (they being well, headed for the Boulder Free-Zone no doubt) and I tell them to take care of my baby and to give this letter to Serena after I died. 

Scene change: Mother goes into the kitchen and reads it while my father tends to me.  She starts to cry.
Scene change: My father switches places with her, so he can read it as well.  His eyes burn with anger and hurt at the thought of one of his children inflicting those feelings onto another.

While my mother is reading, my dad asks me if I'm sure that is the last impression I want to leave on the world.
While my father is reading, my mother says that she doesn't want to deliver such a hateful last testament, but she will only because it is my last testament to my sister (and the world at large).

I answer my father: No, that is the last impression I want to leave on her.
I answer my mother: Please do, because these are things that I was never able to say to her while I was alive. She knows the reasons why.

Looking back on what I've just written, I can gain insight into my own thoughts and motivations.  What was in that letter means little as far as this story is concerned.  Those whom I trust completely are aware of the situation and my feelings about it. 

What I see about this little fantasy/role-play is that I yearn, more than anything, the resources and tenacity to tell my sister exactly what I think of her.  She is a recurring theme in my nightmares, daydreams, writings and musical tastes.